


Commander Shaken and Stirred

by Loolph



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Out of Character, POV Alternating, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-15 12:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16062722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loolph/pseuds/Loolph
Summary: Obviously, once on the ground it all blew up in his face rather spectacularly, as per usual. He had to shed some blood and personas quickly and efficiently, bribe and brawl and fuck his way through, but that was what he did for a living. Bond loved it. He wouldn’t have it any other way.Which is why he was somewhat peeved, when contacted by MI6 in FYI capacity that it was Q himself, that would be providing Bond with local support and personal assistance. Although he had no qualms about the former, he strongly objected to the latter, but was thoroughly ignored by M and Q respectively. 007 exacted his revenge by contacting the MI6’s props department and childishly concocting a ridiculous story about needing for the Quartermaster to look delicious, maybe delicate but unapproachable.Or a story in which Bond tries to get one over on Q and prank him while showing his rougher side on a mission and it all nicely backfires, because Q can be one tough prankster too.





	1. Chapter 1

“This mission is a cluster fuck, wouldn’t you agree, Q?” Bond muttered under his breath as if bored, but somehow exuding confidence through his ear wig, even through a background noise of near by fight. At the moment that was all he was to Q - a voice in the ear.

 _You don’t say?_ was Q’s passive aggressive meme infused reaction.

“Where are you?” Bond continued to pester Q with unwanted conversation. MI6 had no video feed for seventeen days, all other visual means of contact lost due to unexpectedly thorough search at the entrance to this hell hole. Which also meant that for more than fortnight Bond was unarmed. Technically. For the given value of unarmed, when a seasoned 00 agent was concerned.

 _Bond always poses a threat,_ was Q’s conclusion. _Even bound, bleeding and unconscious._

And thought he lost his suit and all of his MI6’s appropriated gimmicks, or maybe because it clearly wasn’t his fault this time, James was also annoyingly chipper and talkative over the radio, like current one way, almost non existent communication channel was the best present ever. The less articulated non verbal queues Q hummed his way, the more Bond lengthy and engaging anecdotes about his present predicament he had ready at a beck and call. Every one word answer was rewarded with fascinating recollections of past glory and chase in full detailed epic description. Q branch was enthralled. Q was almost around the bend.

 _Does the man like the sound of his voice that much?_ Q swallowed his rage over the mic, sticking to mute glowering until now. Bored and cut off from any immediate action until Q’s arrival, this 007 was nothing more than an endless source of bad puns and innuendos.

“Take a wild guess, Bond.” Q’s hiss was cut short when he had to duck and return another punch. He was busy. He was the reason behind a background noise. He was the cause of the near by fight.

“I’ll be right with you, 007,” Q added, a little winded by the scuffle.

“Of course you will,’” Bond’s evil smirk came through Q’s comms like an ear flick. “Just put your back into it, I’ve been told.”

 _Oh no, you didn’t,_ Q thought at using his past logic against him, _you cold-hearted bastard._

Presently Bond was enjoying himself way too much in the midst of a party in full swing in underground racketeering ring hidey-hole, surrounded by weapon’s dealers and their henchmen slash entourage. The meaner the bigger the better. All very superficial.

 _It's all posturing bullshit,_ was Q’s impartial opinion. _One precisely delivered blow and this whole operation would crumble._

That is were Bond came in. Or was supposed to. Because the goal here was to remain covert - no random killing machine, no personal statements. Just one suddenly dead guy in the heart of their operation, were they felt the safest. As any statements went, this was personal enough. Q would leave enough bread crumbs for those who knew where to look so they could reach their own, proper conclusions. It would be more powerful, create deeper ripples, give extra effect.

 _Following this plan was not really one of 007’s strong suits,_ was Q’s own awful pun. _Damn, that man was contagious like a case of bad rash. Equally difficult to get rid of and making your skin itch._

Bond will have to do as he was told, for once. Q was there to make sure of it. He was looking forward to that part, actually. _A little power trip never hurt anyone,_  Q shrugged internally.

“Why don't you come down here and put your back into it?” replied Q waspishly, his unmistakable posh pronunciation clear despite dying down brawl noise and surrounding music. The last of his assailants just hit the floor and Q simply stepped over them, looking jaded and somewhat exasperated. Showing no remorse, he flicked his wrists to shake off the blood excess from his knives. When that wasn’t effective enough, Q calmly wiped the blades on the backs of his thighs without hesitation and sheaved them under his arms without looking, all in one, smooth, practiced motion.

 _Yes, he did saw the irony of their role reversal, thank you very much,_ Q scowled as the passed along groups of stunned thugs, nodding his head in acknowledgment, licking at bloodied lip, while going deeper into the lion’s den.

Rammstein was now blearing ahead of him over the bar, with volume generously exceeding very loud and entering into health hazard intensity. Q was no stranger to industrial metal, but this was verging on too much even for him.

 _How much cliche can we point here out in the next thirty seconds?_ Q’s curiosity wanted to play.

All that toxic masculinity on display, poorly maintained guns, greased leathers and bad breath all around. Spoken for old ladies ganging up on weekend biker chicks at their daddies amusement, drunk on little power they were granted for a moment. All that booze, drugs, loud noise and jerky ape like movements pretending to be dancing and partying. All that money, illegally earned on gun running and children soldiering, freely exchanging hands and instantly lost on even more fake smiles and meaningless enjoyment at the expanse of the weaker.

 _It’s all a little sad,_ Q’s regard conceded. _Yet, you all deserve what’s coming to you._

“It’s not like you are made to be a twink in dirty land of dangerous, tattooed and uncivilized.” Q grumbled, wondering what this scene must’ve looked like in Bond’s eye, with his constant polished exterior and impeccable bespoke suits. How did he even managed to get inside this place with these people? 007's dependency on elegant women, martini drinks and standing out was customary, after all.

“That’s what I mean,” came short quip in Bond’s gravel tone, that due to Q’s ear piece felt like intimate whisper. Q shivered at the tone, despite himself. “Do we want to drop another mouse in this snake pit or do we want to send our own snake and let him crawl in?”

“Are you undermining my efficiency, innovation or just my competence again?” Q jeered, turning around the corner to where Bond’s MI6 training would most likely had put him, looking around the place, not finding Bond at first or second glance.

“It’s nothing personal, Q, there is something horribly efficient about you,” James drawled again. It probably was meant as an insult, but to Q that voice felt more like an stroke against fur’s grain - unwelcome but tantalizing. “This just doesn’t seem like your scene, that’s all,” Bond added and Q finally placed the agent, a shadow silhouette lounging lazily on the only couch in the room, his eyes the only splash of color. “But everyone needs a hobby…"

“So what's yours?” Q bantered back on instinct, when all the details of this display had hit him squarely in the face. His brain had skidded to a stop, overflown with visual input. Q was stopped in his tracks, rooted to the spot in the mercifully dark corner at the sight of 007.

 _And what a sight it was,_ Q’s brain hiccuped.

Gone was polite cufflinks' correcting and razor blade smooth skin. What had been splayed for Q’s viewing pleasure like on a royal throne was a totally different kind of animal altogether. In this moment and in this place full of predators, all those carnivores were giving Bond a wide berth, out of respect or fear for the dominant he naturally was.

Bond was cladded in a well worn steel toe boots with biker leather pants hugging his narrow hips, white beater smeared with engine oil and blood stretched deliciously over his wide chest. It was partially hidden under a club jacket patched with a full local motorcycle gang colors, “Commander” rank on the right pec and name “Shaken and Stirred” over his heart.

 _How did you’ve managed to get to that position and title in the local chapter during two weeks time, you bastard?_ Q wondered, making his best guess.

007 should have looked a little worst for wear, sporting a dirty blond rough buzzcut, silver-gold three days' stubble and an eyebrow cut held with a bad suture job. It was all gruff and black leathers, arms stretched over the couch’s back in proprietary gesture, one bloodied knuckle’s hand twirling a tumbler of whiskey, the other holding a not so cheap cigar, legs spread in a primitive show of manhood.

But James' reclined posture was bending space, making it into his rightly given court. Head thrown back, ice blue eyes hooded, lascivious smirk playing at the lips, his relaxed leonine sprawl had exuded so much confidence that it had created some kind of force field. It screamed ‘enter at your own risk’, keeping all other patrons at length, just after Bond device.

 _This 007 is somewhat intimidating,_ Q was honest with himself, _and quite impressive._

This Bond was also a lot like one of Q’s shameful wanking fantasies, which Q was very deliberately not thinking about right now. When their eyes met over the floor, he felt the connection like physical touch, like a gravitational pull, like lover’s caress. Q was fighting a blush with all his might.

“Bearing witness to first time for everything,” Bond quipped, backtracking Q’s last comment and quirking one corner of his mouth in his patent, patronizing smirk.

 _I am truly and royally fucked,_ Q concurred in the privacy of his own head. And then, he was pissed.

“What makes you think this is my first time?” Q purred, holding his ground, not giving in, cocking his hip to one side and crossing his arms. He let his eyes linger over the seated agent from head to toe and back, letting himself enjoy what he saw for once in his life and showing it on his face, playing lewdly at his split lip with a tip of a tongue, when their gaze crossed again.

Q’s temper got truly better of him. Bond was good at switching the game, of course he was, QED. His adaptable skills were legendary, if one was to believe in MI6’s gossip mill. Along with undermining Q’s.

 _But covert was never in your toolset, Mr Bond… James Bond,_ Q gathered, showing bloodied teeth in a deprecating sneer. _I am so much better at this than an exemplar of British fortitude._

What Bond did for a living among the rich and deadly during his missions, Q did on daily basis among the best spies in the world. He had the patience. He had the experience. Bland and proper Q with the spots, laptop sitting in pajamas and Earl Grey addiction was his best creation yet, because no-one in MI6 was ever the wiser.

Due to Bond’s frankly idiotic prank in choosing Q’s outfit, a final result would make Q look like a little bitch in black mesh T shirt and skin tight latex trousers, with some chains, collar and coal eyeliner. Q had no time to double check the wardrobe department’s efforts before last minute, already in the field. He was holding everybody else’s hand with this case and had to improvise an ensemble that wouldn’t have him molested or killed on a spot.

He suspected that 007 had planned to step in and rescue poor, lost, little Q at the last minute and save his boffin arse, but something inside Q rebelled at the idea. Q could hold his ground very well by his lonesome. No helping hands were needed. Especially, no hands that had put him on the hot stove to begin with.

The thing that almost no-one in branch knew, was that it was no hardship for Q whatsoever. He had trained for this. Every single day. As hard as 00’s, by the same set of rules and demands. Q’s work ethics always called for on hands approach and he did equipped the 00 program himself. Anything that the agents had laid their calloused fingers on, first had pass through Q’s, equally calloused by now.

 _So, call me old fashioned,_ Q grumbled at the fellow brancher’s teasing. _I like to work with my hands._

Q designed for all of the other programs as well, so he needed to know what requirements to provide in field equipment and what surprises real life scenarios could bring. That knowledge could be obtained only through every day contact and use. Not just with schematics and 3D simulations.

As a boss he could revel in his personal touch approach and perform his evaluations without outside supervision, in private or after hours. Those tests sometimes resulted in needing his whole body to come along. His overall shape, dexterity and stamina was a pleasant side effect.

 _The washboard abs hiding under his cardigan was not to shabby either,_ if Q said so himself. It went splendidly along with his not so well known ability to carry, shot and fight with almost every gun and blade know to man.

After all the residual discomfort, training sores and embarrassment for surpassing all MI6’s tactical instructors subsided, he felt comfortable and in control of his own body for the first time in his life. Q really started to appreciate it. He felt proud of what he had done to his form and he decided to underline his accomplishments with a celebratory tattoo. Maybe a piercing, too.

Turned out not only Q’s mind and body were something incredible. His skin was made for body art, his pain threshold insanely high. In this journey of self discovery and acceptance, Q met some very appreciative body modification artists and they became life long friends. Q was running out of untouched skin, only off limits space being above neck. He loved every minute of it.

The only thing he had to do in the situation Bond had put him in, was to discard layers of ridiculous clothes and his iron clad rule of not mixing business with this particular type of pleasure. He had obviously thrown a spectacular tantrum, threatening demotions, computer bugs and credit card limits maxed out for life to all his underlings, so that to make his displeasure known and clear. They should not be put under Bond’s spell so easily and so eagerly comply next time.

And then he simply raided the nearest MI6’s secret armory and army surplus store.

 _Come out, come out, wherever you are,_ Q trembled, giddy with childish glee while donning on his favorite weapon’s ensemble and getting down to bad guys' head quarters.

The real Q was about to stand up and be let loose to create sweet mayhem. He was good at it. Q loved destruction even more than your average 00 agent and secretly mastered a long time ago. He just hid his passion better than Bond, pulling a cover of social anxiety and innocent nerdy exterior that was all just under the collar, one ugly sweater deep.

The tricky part would be to rail himself in into his beige and boring box once again. But this mission dictated one thing at the time type of thinking. Q decided he would worry and cringe at his behavior later, once he was done in giving Bond his piece of mind.

 _Not such a clever boy, 007,_ evil smirk quirked Q’s lips. _So much for a promising career in espionage. Let me show you the sleight of hand of my people. If you can’t be covert, catch their eyes, have them look only where you want them to. Capture their attention by the balls, Bond._

Q squared his shoulders and went straight to 007 position, chin held high. _Make them your bitch, like I’m about to make you mine. Turnabout is fair play._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, a cookie and a hug to anyone who gets dialogue inspirations other than from Daniel Craig's Bond movies. Good luck. :-)


	2. Chapter 2

Bond knew about Quartermaster’s disguise in theory. He was present at all of debriefings pertaining to the gun smuggler ring’s case. He helped with the MI6’s onsite strategy and had created the best approach and assassination scenario. Obviously, once on the ground it all blew up in his face rather spectacularly, as per usual. He had to shed some blood and personas quickly and efficiently, bribe and brawl and fuck his way through, but that was what he did for a living. Bond loved it. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Which is why he was somewhat peeved, when contacted by MI6 in FYI capacity that it was Q himself, that would be providing Bond with local support and personal assistance. Although he had no qualms about the former, he strongly objected to the latter, but was thoroughly ignored by M and Q respectively. 007 exacted his revenge by contacting the MI6’s props department and childishly concocting a ridiculous story about needing for the Quartermaster to look delicious, maybe delicate but unapproachable. He was surprised that his input was taken seriously under consideration and appreciated at the face value.

“Where the hell have you been, Q?” whispered Bond sweetly, to a stilted, shadowed figure of Quartermaster, not bothering to hide amusement in his voice. In all fairness, Q should have looked like a goth sub slave at the S&M gay club. So much for theory. The reality was all that, but also so much more.

“Enjoying death,” two word heckle in his ear was equally sly and matter of factly.

 _You've got a bloody cheek,_ Bond begrudgingly admitted, casting his eyes over Q’s form for the first time fully, when he passed through a beam of light.

 _Damn,_ Bond’s inner voice commented, stunned to monosyllabic responses. He dragged on his cigar, trying to cover the effort of lifting his metaphorical jaw from the ground.

“Any problems getting in?” he asked on autopilot, puffing with the heavy smoke, cataloging all of Q. Gone were the grandfather’s clothes and nerdy glasses. What had entered Bond’s temporary domain was so much more than mere mortal. Q looked ethereal, slim figured, posture tight, his black curls slicked and pulled back from his face into samurai inspired knot, blue eyes gleaming alien like without the frames, almost too big for that soft skin face, lower lip sporting bleeding split like a badge of honor. “Did you kill anyone, Q?”

“They were assassins,” Q’s shrug was clear in his voice. All of the movements of his approach were fluid, almost inhuman in its economy and grace, but there was nothing celestial about him. One would make a grave mistake, matching this deadly saunter with angelic stroll.

“They wouldn't have taken it personally.” Q finished his thought, cutting through people without recognizing their right to breathe, not bothered with their existence, zeroing in on Bond’s position like a guided missile.

 _The devil was in the details,_ Bond was founding out on the go, his hackles rising in understanding.

As if in a distorted kind of reflection to Bond's outfit, the Quartermaster wasn't wearing much at all. Just some black camo BDU pants with a pair of combat boots and tactical gloves. This state of nonchalant undress, excess of naked body on display should resulted in showing Q off as exposed and vulnerable. But Q’s pale skin sparkled under the UV lights and strobe flashes of the club in violent contrast with generous blood splatter and tribal tattoos covering his arms and torso in angry slashes of crimson and pitch black from neck to wrist. This savage frame was all out there, proudly paraded around as in a taunt or brutal afterthought of "you can't touch this", gleaming in the low light, accented with stainless steel body piercings here and there.

“Is this seat taken?” a bold, loud question in Bond’s face. It had turned some heads and had thrown Bond out of his reverie, when this Q stepped closer, invading his personal space like he owned it.

“Help yourself,” was all Bond could push through his suddenly dry throat along some cigar smoke, gesturing automatically at a place at his side with smoldering tip, where some comfortable looking pillows created sound sitting arrangement.

 _Oh, no, Mr Bond,_ Q thought nastily. _If you think I’ll go easy on you and follow your lead like that, you’ve got another thing coming. Prepare to struggle with keeping your eyes on the mark and off my perfectly-formed arse._

“Oh, I will,” Q quipped back as he simply turned and very deliberately placed his behind right between Bond’s leather covered thighs. “Q reporting for duty,” he murmured sweetly under his breath. Bond’s resulting twitch of unsurpassed surprise Q would cherish for a rest of his life.

 _Maybe now you would understand what you’ve unleashed, 007,_ Q’s vengeful monologue continued, _and be more careful in the future._

Q’s wiry frame was cut across and through with various black sheath's straps and utility belts, now hitching on Bond’s leather clothes. He was carrying real arsenal on his person, making his cargo pants ride low on his slim hips, showing his lumbar dimples. Two thigh holsters containing Walther PPK/S nine-millimeter short’s made Q’s cargo pants skin tight across his arse, which at the moment was firmly in contact with Bond’s crotch. The arm braces holding two armpit sheaths with spare ammo and throwing knives made Quartermaster’s deltoid and trapezius muscles stand out, his hips seeming obscenely narrow, now bracketed by Bond’s thighs.

 _I’d like to find out if my fingers would meet around that waist,_ was James’ idle and suicidal thought. It made Bond slightly lightheaded, suddenly.

All that had stopped, when Q had thrown Bond a lazy look over his shoulder and drawn sheathed wakizashi from a cradle along his spine and placed it before them, on their laps. Until now, the sword’s hand guard was lovingly brushing his nape as a crown of the Quartermaster’s weapons suit. This close up, the play of Q’s muscles on his arms and back was mesmerizing, affecting Bond further. Even more so, after Q squirmed slightly, had thrown one of his legs over 007’s thigh and reclined all over Bond’s front like on a comfy chair. Or like all over one's lover.

 _I am the commander now,_ inner Q sneered, _how do you like me now, Bond?_

 _This whole get up should’ve shown you ridiculously over the top,_ James marveled, looking over plastered Q, down along his chest, _like some head case with strap fetish for bad bondage._

Yet, it had the opposite effect, because Q might’ve been out there, but he was too dimmed down, even now brushing against Bond like a ghost, his lack of bulk flaunted around as an advantage, not loss. Any closer inspection had shown a lack of chrome of shinny finish on his person, even the piercings slightly blackened. All of the guns and knives had been a little worn out, expertly maintained and lovingly ready to use at moment's notice, violence coiling beneath the surface, ready to strike in a blink of an eye at slightest provocation.

“007. Mission report, if you please.” Quartermaster’s acerbically whispered snark was so familiar that it had melted something in the pit of Bond’s stomach. Q’s outside cover persona projected bloody murder, light dancing on his frame like on tiger’s stripes, real predator’s camouflage, but this voice James knew what to do with.

This Q was trim, cut, taut like a piano’s wire, sharp like a knife’s edge and could do just as much damage, even as he lounged against Bond’s chest and asked for status update, like on any other check in.

 _I’m so fucked,_ James had thrown in the towel in his mind. He liked to play with dangerous things, after all, even if they nearly killed him. _Agent down._

“You must be joking,” he admitted aloud, as if despite himself, his hands twitching, itching to trace any and all of those delicious straps on Q with his fingertips.

“Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?” Q huffed with amusements, his nose in the nook of James’ throat, nuzzling at the collar of the leather jacket.

“There’s nothing to report, Q,” answered Bond absentmindedly, grasping at straws as not to start checking if those piercings were real with his tongue. “There’s not much to be done in the covert department, since the mark is sitting right here, surrounded by twenty guards.”

Bond disguised his disappearing resolve and blinding need to touch Q by bringing his whiskey to his lips. It was a good thing 007 drank fast and by the mouthful, because he nearly chocked when he felt Q’s tongue stroking his earlobe.

 _Fuck, you don’t pull your punches, Q_ , Bond’s lust induced haze was delighted.

“I know this is usually when you get out your gun and press it to someone’s temple and ask them very politely to do what you want.” Q’s tone was all business but his hot breath ghosted over Bond’s neck like a lover’s stroke. His body started undulate all over James’ in a not so subtle play act of a lap dance.

“But I’m not the type that’s afraid of death so that puts us in a quandary, don’t it?” Q continued, voice all professional, like nothing important was happening.

 _You think of women as disposable pleasures, rather than meaningful pursuits._ Q remembered. _Good thing I’m not a woman. Come on, let’s play a little game._

“What's that?” drawled James, catching Q’s elegant fingers at the corner of his eye. They were toying with a vicious looking blade, drawn out of nowhere, while Q's hips carried on the rhythm without a hitch.

“Just a gift for an admirer.” The flashes from knife tossed carelessly between Q's slim hands were hypnotizing. "Shall we begin, 007?”

 _What a waste of good scotch and smoke,_ went along Bond’s mind, as he let go of a nearly empty glass and the cigar stub to fall on the floor.

James' hands trembled slightly as they landed on Q’s thigh holsters, tugging at the straps, making the growing bulge between Q’s legs more visible. It all looked very pornographic, but didn’t actually crossed any inappropriate touch boundaries yet. Bond was still aiming at somewhat professional conduct, even when putting on a show. He knew this was a spectacle with one specific audience member in mind, but it was always easier to keep the lies as close to the truth as possible.

 _Damn, I want this,_ James just realized, _I want you for real, Q._

But Q was playing at indecent display like the master creator he apparently was, never loosing the flow of his full body movement and hold on the blade he was juggling with. Bond decided to loose his mind and stop playing at all, just showing Q what he felt for a change. It went better for the script anyway.

“I guess we better call it a day, then.” Bond growled under his breath, grinding his hardening dick shamelessly between Q’s arse cheeks and living to see another breath, when all Q did was to rut against him harder. Bond never felt more alive.

James let his head drop to the side, exposing his jaw to Q’s mouthing wet kisses. Bond’s hands wandered boldly now, one up over cut abs to that tempting nipple ring, the other cupping Q’s dick, making it jump in his grip. James knew that this public exhibit of lust between two men was putting some of the crowd off. But it was doing a lot for him and their target seemed transfixed, now fully facing them not ten feet away, speechless and stock still. As a pair, they were almost exactly what the mark liked to watch, squarely from a wet dream - a scruffy, old blond bear and a black haired twink.

“Not just yet.” Q’s detached and pleasant voice was the only warning Bond got. “Please kindly follow my lead.”

 _Let’s hope there’s enough room for me and your ego,_ detached part of Q admitted.

“I’ll do my best.” Bond hummed, distracted.

“I've heard that before, James,” was chased with such a sharp nip to his neck, that Q’s teeth drew blood.

Bond didn’t think. He reacted on pure instinct, jumping to his feet and dislodging Q out of his lap with one smooth motion, while stealing Q’s hand gun. 007 ended up pointing it squarely between Quartermaster's eyes at point blank range, posture of natural born killer at its finest, no second-guessing, no remorse.

Q landed at his feet facing him in an elegant low crouch, through an impossible show of acrobatics. He was holding a naked wakizashi blade with its tip against Bond’s inner thigh and femoral artery, his other knife's wielding hand high behind him for balance or showmanship, almost nicking the near sitting people on their calfs.

 _You can switch off so easily, can't you?_ Q was reminded at that moment, looking up in awe along the barrel of the gun from the wrong end at the agent, questioning the plan of a second. _It doesn't bother you? The killing?_

 _I wouldn't be very good at my job if it did,_ answered Bond’s ice cold eyes approvingly, dancing with mischief. He was on board with whatever Q wanted to do.

“Hey, man! You nearly stabbed me,” yelled their target in disbelief at being the closest one to Q’s knife and becoming a collateral damage. He was visibly reading himself for a longer tirade, when Bond interjected smoothly, with cocking he hammer at his newly acquired gun back and lowering his hand.

“My apologies,” 007’s brief eye contact and voice carried just the right amount of contrition without any subjection. He looked down at still kneeling Q, stepped next to him, as if not noticing the long blade near his still half hard cock and with his free hand ruffled Q’s slicked black curls.

“My pet decided to show fangs in the most inopportune of moments.” The flawless stiff upper lip pronunciation coming from a scruff, heathen looking biker was doing something to their mark. It was doing something for Q, too. Bond’s fist full of his hair tightened uncomfortably all of the sudden. The non verbal command behind the gesture made Q gasp with surprise and pain, neck bend vulnerably back. He lowered and holstered his weapons while being dragged to his feet by his hair, like a defenseless creature.

 _Oh, you’re good at this, you bastard,_ Q lamented internally, _of course you’re perfect with pain and power plays as well._

“He will be dealt with accordingly”, Bond added as if an afterthought, when he was walking out of the room, still dragging Q by his locks. The murmur of outbursting comments and lull of picked up conversations once they were leaving was music to their ears. This was covert enough.

 _Arrogance and self-awareness seldom go hand in hand,_ Bond concluded his conversation with the mark as an afterthought.

Because he knew there were no ‘nearly’ with Q. Ever. The target had been slashed with utmost precision, the whatever deadly substance administered via the paper cut thin blade nick to the leg, already coursing through the veins. Bond just didn’t know how much time they had left for the extraction, before the poison took effect.

“If you don't leave now, we'll die together.” Q’s sudden outburst of movement when he freed himself out of the hair dragging and shoved Bond through the nearest door without another word was the true testament to his ever present, professional state of mind. Reminding Bond, that this all was just an act for a mission. That Q wasn’t his pet to be punished for bad behavior.

 _Pity,_ Bond thought darkly, licking his suddenly parched lips. _I still want to know what you taste like, Q._

“I can think of worse ways to go,” he quipped, but was wordlessly ignored by Q leading them through a couple of corridors, back doors and dirty allies, until all of the background sounds and movements died down.

“15 minutes to extraction,” Q announced, his accent all posh and proper once again and clicked his comm off after MI6’s confirmation reply. He went for Bond’s ear piece as well, shutting it down when simultaneously shoving James so hard, that his back hit the closest wall, knocking the wind out of 007.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first cliff hanger-y thingy, yay...  
> I mean, I did not just do that all by myself on purpose, nope, not me, no siree...


	3. Chapter 3

“Here we go”, Bond whispered not so soothingly, readying for Q’s flight or fight response. “Show me what you've got, Q.” Either way was fine with him. A way to burn off all of that excess adrenaline.

007 always enjoyed the banter with his Quartermaster on the comms, even when they were a little one sided lately. He knew he was umping up the game, pulling at Q’s proverbial pig tails, testing this tension between them, present ever since that bloody first meeting in National Gallery at Trafalgar Square, wanting to know where it led. James picked at it, like bad habit. What was one more anyway, along chilled Bollinger Grande Année and the Beluga caviar?

 _And now I know something about you, Q,_ Bond satisfied himself with indulgent smile, leaning against the wall more comfortably, watching as Q surveyed the alleyway and him, stepping side to side like a reading boxer. _I know you're reckless too._

This sweet dissonance between what James knew and heard and what he was so carelessly shown and hoped to have a permission to finally feel was making Bond’s cock harden faster than he ever remembered.

Bond knew his reputation as a ladies men proceeded him.

 _An orgasm was an orgasm,_ passed Bond’s mind in a flash, _no matter what the gender of the partner you have it with._ It was the consent that counted. He was an all inclusive kind of person. He always enjoyed all of it. He won’t be apologizing for it. He wasn’t sorry for what he’ve done tonight.

He wanted this Q, plain and simple. This jack of all trades, master of disguises, hidden warrior, real predator in sheep’s clothing. This Q, who could keep up with Bond at every step of the way or lead him through baptism by fire to a land beyond the reason or duty, where free spirits roamed. This Q surpassed every preconceptions about him that 007 had ever had. James was man enough to admit it, when he had been wrong. Now, he wanted to check how much of a bad boy Q really was. He wanted to strip Q until no armor was left. He wanted to ruin Q and fall apart himself and then carefully put them back together again side by side.

He just wanted this Q. Badly.

Turned out, he needn’t’ve worried, that he might have overstepped their professional boundaries or projected unreciprocated lust. After thoroughly appraising their soundings and apparently finding it safe and suitable, Q all but jumped Bond, pushing his body closer to James’ and the wall.

“Bond, I need you back,” Q nearly whined with need, his tone breathy and ghosting over a still bleeding bite on James’ neck.

 _God, I need to feel you too,_ something in Bond sobbed in return. _Just like that._

“I never left.” Bond pulled at Q’s body hard, plastering them from knee to nose. “You’re not still playing, Q, are you?” 007 needed to make sure.

“Fuck playing, James,” Q moaned right in his ear and thrusted up against James. He shoved his thigh unceremoniously between James’ to get even closer, rubbing his very interested cock agains Bond’s hip, trying to line them up perfectly and deliciously failing at the haste.

“With pleasure, Q, with pleasure,” Bond purred, just before he closed the gap between their lips. Their kiss tasted of whiskey and blood and hustle.

 _Too much teeth and tongue and just perfect,_ passed through James’ mind. _A brave new world._

Bond almost lost it on the spot when he first flicked at Q’s tongue bar. He angled his head slightly, trying to get nearer to Q to take some control back, licking at the split lip and getting another quiet moan as a result. It made Bond’s blood boil.

 _I want to hear you like that again,_ deemed on 007. _No, I need to._ He vowed to try harder.

Bond delved his tongue in Q’s lush mouth without mercy, mapping his teeth and stroking his soft palette, chasing that metal pin again. Q seem to melt in his hold, giving in. His quick puffs through his nose were definitely aimed to hold any louder noise in.

 _No, be loud,_ Bond’s lips demanded. _I want to hear you._

He shoved against the wall, switching their positions, Q’s sword sheath scrapping at the bricks and digging into his spine, making him arch into Bond’s compact front, seeking further contact. At that, one of James’ hands grabbed a handful of that sinful arse, pulling Q to him with even more force. They both shivered at the touch, Bond shuddering with better friction, Q overtly enjoying all of Bond’s jacket zips and patches scratching at his naked skin. Bond was on the verge of coming in his pants like a fifteen year old just from this alone.

 _And we’re nowhere near a proper bed,_ Bond’s mind was dazed with the idea, _nowhere near naked. I want you naked in my bed, Q._

“Holly fuck,” Bond groaned, when they broke the kiss for air. James’ other hand tangled in silk strands at Q’s nape again, exposing that tempting column of neck. He let his stubble scratch the delicate skin, when he nuzzled his way down from Q’s smooth jaw to the sweet dip of collarbones, finding another iron studs there, being guided by Q’s hands clutching at his neck.

 _It’s like he’s connecting dots,_ Q understood in that instance. _Making a map of me. Oh, we’re going to have so much fun._

Bond soothed the beard burn with licks of his wet tongue, but couldn’t help himself when finding the soft hollow of Q’s throat, nibbling at another pin there and marking Q, making him shiver even harder. When Bond’s lips had found his nipple and tugged at the ring, Q’s hips started to thrust agains Bond’s in a mindless rhythm.

 _I want to mark you everywhere,_ was Bond’s last sound thought, _so you remember this._

“What do you want, Q?” Bond whispered in a trance, his hands migrating from Q’s delectable behind to his cock, rubbing Q through the material of his BDU’s, flicking at the clothed head. The look of pure arousal on Q’s face at that deliberately harsh caress would stay with James for the rest of his life.

 _I need you looking like that,_ chanted Bond’s possessive streak, _like a man who belongs here always._

“You shouldn't stare,” Q gasped, as James’ eyes held his. 007 blindly opened Q’s button, lowering the zip carefully over the bulge and pressed his hand shamelessly in the thigh heat of Q’s pants never letting Q’s gaze go.

“Well, you shouldn't look like that then,” Bond murmured, finding out instantly that prim and proper Q had a Prince Albert ring and went commando in that outfit.

 _For fuck’s sake,_  the discovery made Bond black out for a second. _Q, you’re glorious._

James’ fingers tightened on instinct and elicited a hiss from behind Q’s clenched teeth. If the cock ring was real, all of the other body modifications were real too, not just a temporary part of Q’s disguise. This is what Q looked like below the collar everyday. This was Q at his core.

“Now you know why I hate flying.” Q muffled a relived groan at Bond’s first firm tug. As if by a case of retaliation, Q’s hands had flown from Bond’s neck to his cock in an instance.

 _Let me feel you as well,_ begged Q’s inner want. _It’s amazing what one can do with an extra pair of hands._

He tugged at Bond’s belt buckle and fly non too gently, dragging the tight leather with some difficulty due to Bond not letting go of Q’s cock even for a moment, steadily working his hand up and down Q’s length, smearing the gathered precum all over the head and that cock bar a little too harshly and just as Q liked.

 _Damn it, Bond,_ Q huffed with mock annoyance,  _y_ _ou’re ruining my concentration._

“Airport security is a bitch.” Q finished absentmindedly, when finally winning the fight with Bond’s boxers, pulling Bond’s cock free and circling his long, elegant fingers around it. Bond’s huff of surprised laughter at the comment was cut short at that, when they both groaned as if relieved, Bond throwing his head back at the feel of slick, leather gloves on just the right side of too rough.

Q looked down in fascination as his fingers worked around Bond and Bond’s around him, knuckles bumping. After a moment, he licked at Bond’s throat, soothing the crimson mark from before, licking the residual blood smear off. He had nuzzled closer for a deep kiss that lingered, tongues stroking lazily, helping them to find a mutually satisfying rhythm.

 _Oh, that’s good,_ said Bond’s fleeting mind. _That’s perfect._ His legs started trembling with his effort of starving off the impending orgasm.

Q had other ideas, the genius that he was. He broke their kiss, pulling Bond away from his cock by dragging on the biker’s jacket to be thrown on the ground and directing Bond’s hands to be placed on the wall beside his head.

 _Skin contact,_ Q decided, _yes, I want to feel your skin, Bond._

He yanked his gloves off and licked his inner palm, feeding Bond his other fingers, unmistakably wanting them to be treated likewise. His  dark blue irises were completely gone, pupils blown with lust, spellbound with a feel of Bond’s tongue work at wetting his digits. He looked like he forgot how to breathe, not only what was that he wanted to do next. Bond’s not so subtle shove with cock against neglected cock had him closing his wet fingers around both of their lengths.

 _Oh, right, moving on,_ Q found his lost plot in a second. _That tongue, the bastard knows how to use it._

“How long have we got?” Bond’s voice was all velvet over gravel. It was Q’s turn to close his eyes, throw his head at the sky at the sound of that murmur, the feel of expert touch, giving Bond an excellent vantage point to admire the sight of Q, his tattoo covered, shivering abs, his beautiful hands working around both of them.

 _Just look at us, barely held together by sheer power of will, at our wits end,_ Bond took the sight in, his eyes lingering at the details of this shameless display, admiring his own work at leaving red marks all over pallid skin dotted with black ink and metal rings. _Take us to the brink, Q, and I’ll happily push._ It was all too much and not enough at the same time.

As if by the case of mind reading, Q squeezed their cocks a little tighter, picking up the pace, adding a little twist at the end, rubbing his thumb at their heads. The resulting thrust was all outside of Bond’s conscious control. He was secretly grateful at Q’s idea of wall support, because his knees had buckled slightly at the onslaught of arousal.

“Thirty seconds,” was Q’s sly reply, with way too clear pronunciation in Bond’s opinion.

 _Brace yourself, 007,_ Q decided on the finishing touch.

“That doesn't give us a lot of time…” Bond’s cheeky comeback was cut short with a groan as Q bit on the mark on his neck again. The surprising overstimulation was all it took.

Again, Bond reacted on pure instinct, but this time throwing his head back and loosing his conscious thoughts completely in the oldest of reactions know to men, no MI6’s training needed. The perfect mix of pleasure and pain had made his cock jerk in Q’s hands, coating those long fingers and six pack abs with white strips of semen. He thrusted hard, helplessly moaning with his satisfaction.

Q’s teeth still worried at his throat, muffling groans as Q’s digits lost their rhythm, when he joined James with his orgasm adding to the mess at their bellies, making 007 bleed once again. The resulting bite mark would leave a permanent, slight scar, leaving Q helplessly embarrassed and Bond immensely proud.

 _Don’t be ashamed, Q,_ Bond allowed magnanimously afterwards, _at least this one was fun to get. I’ll wear it like a medal of honor._

In the future, 007 would develop a habit of stroking the scab in Q’s company every time Q would scold Bond for something, like not returning his gear in one piece. When Q would register the gesture, his tirade would halt with an awkward stop and subject change, Q fighting a blush with bloody murder in his eyes. He would then drag Bond to the nearest empty storage room or gun range with vengeance in his heart, scolding him like a very stupid child for using those deplorable tactics all the way there and then proceeding with kissing the living daylight out of James.

 _Mixed messages, Q,_ allowed Bond leniently. He was never sorry for doing it. He always enjoyed this Q. He loved when this Q came out to play.

The whole by the wall in the back alley encounter made Bond’s lights go out for a moment, making him pant helplessly for breath now. It did a funny things to his mind, too. Bond felt like he was in the safest place possible. Not in an alleyway, exposed, with his pants around his knees. James had found himself safe in the arms of a trusted lover, not an often occurrence. This wasn’t a disposable pleasure. This was Q. And he trusted Q with his life. Even if admitting it out loud would surely make him choke to death.

 _I’m sorry, I am, who I am,_ Bond’s thought clouded for a moment. _But, whatever is left of me, whoever is left, whatever I am, I'm yours to play with._

“That last hand... nearly killed me,” he managed to grit out instead, when his focus finally returned and he let his eyes roam over his partner. James left his shields dropped for that moment, showing his inner struggle honestly on his face for the first time in a very long time. Q responded with his patent acceptance at 007's antics, understanding etching his features. He huffed with amusement at the cheesy pun and it wasn’t Quartermaster that looked him in the eye still. And it wasn’t because there wasn’t a lab coat or cardigan in sight.

 _I want you like this, tangled in my silk sheets, Q,_ James’ head filled with images, _loose limbed and smiling goofily, covered in sweat and my cum._

It was this new Q. Bond’s Q. This delightful creature he barely tasted was still an uncharted territory, a marvel - savage and carefree with the knives, tattoos and piercings to be coveted and discovered over and over again.

Sudden rise of Bond’s possessiveness had made him bow down, pick up his jacket and fling it over Q’s shoulders. Q was perfect like this and Bond didn’t felt like sharing this Q with MI6. With anyone.

 _I don’t want to give this up,_ Bond’s train of thought surprised him, his hands on Q’s nape, pulling him close, chasing that mouth for an angry, deep kiss. _I don’t want to never see you again like this._

 _Good,_  Q return the kiss without hesitation, taking over control with ease and slowing the pace. _Then you shall,_ his lips seem to promise, when they finally parted, Bond pulling his trousers and zipping up, doing the same for Q.

 _Mine,_ screamed a caveman in Bond. _For my viewing pleasure only._

Sensing this state of mind in 007, Q had let him, putting his arms into leather sleeves without one word of protest, cum covered fingers be damned and even had let Bond close the jacket around him, covering all that straps and body modifications up. Some things were to remain just between them.

 _You've got a secret. Something you can't tell anyone, because you don't trust anyone,_ Bond thought, showing it plainly on his face again for a second, _but your secret is safe with me._

 _I know,_ Q’s eyes glimmered with relief and appreciation in the low light of a nearby street lamp. _I appreciate it, James. I appreciate you._

A little later and yet all too soon, MI6 issue get away car had rounded the nearest corner, stopping with a screech. Q obediently walked around Bond to get to it, putting some spring in his step, but with posture still somewhat relaxed, subtly exuding post coital haze of contentment.

“James, move your ass,” he whispered sweetly over his shoulder. He opened the doors, throwing his last free, wicked smirk Bond’s way over the roof. “After all, your extraction point is one mile away,” he added in his full Quartermaster's mode voice.

 _You jumped-up little shit,_ huffed Bond fondly. _I’ll get you for that, Q._

“Oh, and 007? Good luck out there in the field,” Q added, eyes still dancing below a familiar mop of tousled black curls. “Please return the equipment in one piece,” was the last thing Bond heard, before the Quartermaster, this new Q, his Q, disappeared.

**Author's Note:**

> All I wanted to do is to write a nice, couple hundred words about shirtless samurai!Q lounging on leather clad biker!Bond's lap as a hiatus from a different story I'm working on. Over 7 thousand words later I have to sit on my hands to stop. Adding. Things. Damn...  
> 


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